


Fixing It

by mattzerella_sticks



Series: Season 15 Inspired [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awesome Rowena MacLeod, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Has Mental Health Issues (Supernatural), Chuck Bashing, Chuck Shurley is Castiel's Parent, Coda, Couple's Counseling, Dean Winchester Has Anger Issues, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Episode: s15e08 Our Father Who Aren't In Heaven, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Married Couple, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death(s), Separations, Therapist Rowena MacLeod, Therapy, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Dean Winchester walked a long & difficult road. House burning down when he was 4, constantly being on the move until his father lost a fight with demons at the age of 25. Reunited with his mother only to lose her again. Have a son only to lose him, too. Of all the shadows that have crossed his path, he thought one of the main sources of light was his husband Castiel.But he had to ruin that, too.Can he ever have that shine again? Or are there things that are too good for him to hold? Will they mend what was broken?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: Season 15 Inspired [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517543
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	Fixing It

**Author's Note:**

> So I meant to write this before "The Trap", but I'm glad I waited because I incorporated a bit of that into this :)
> 
> Really inspired by how Rowena was telling them to fix it and all the posts about couple's counseling so I decided to actually write a fic about all that! Hope you enjoy!

“We met in an office like this, actually… or, outside of one.”

“Really? Why don’t you expand on that Dean.”

Dean shifts, glancing over at where Cas waits perched on the other end of the crimson couch. It drew Dean’s attention upon walking in, the sweat around his collar doubling imagining how hot it must be to sit on it. Like roasting over a pit. The image grew stronger when he glimpsed how the therapist’s hair matched her furniture.

“Well,” he squeezes his wrist, staring at his feet, “I was going to this place for a few weeks now as part of… recovery, for this _thing_ that happened to me.” Nails bite at his skin while skimming the surface of his memory pool. “All the physical scars healed, but there was still something not _clicking_ up in the head department -”

“Dean,” she says, halting his descent into the deep end, “You don’t have to dredge up past trauma. I didn’t ask for that. I asked about when you first met Castiel.”

His vision, once blurry, now refocuses on the rivulets of blood trickling from where his nails broke skin. “Right,” Dean coughs, “Yeah… yeah, thanks… anyway -”

Five minutes. Traffic on the highway made him late by five minutes. Dean hurried out of his car and over to the small storefront Dr. Richings rented. Not the most promising places for help in navigating his mental health, nestled between a hair salon and a Pizza Hut, but it accepted his very _threadbare_ insurance. Plus, after getting to know him, Richings earned his respect and vice versa.

Except, with now _six minutes_ past when he should have been there, Dean threw all his hard work away. “If you’re going to be late,” John’s voice in his head echoed, “why bother showing up at all.”

He paused, hand on the door. Breathing deeply, Dean mumbled, “Because if it matters… you _have_ to show up.” The bile simmers and sinks into the bog it rose from, beaten back by one of the mantras Richings taught him. Waiting another beat to calm his rapid heartbeat and remind himself the other man won’t be too mad, Dean finally entered.

“Look, I know what Dr. Richings said but-but I don’t think it’s enough to warrant giving away my appointment!”

Someone with a voice like scuffed leather blocked the path to Tessa’s desk. Broad shoulders, either from actual muscles or extra padding given by the rumpled trench coat. Dark hair sticking up like he stuck a finger in an electrical socket seconds before.

“Sorry Mr. Shurley,” Tessa said, “but as I’ve been trying to tell you, we didn’t _give_ your spot away. The doctor decided _last time_ that you needed to have your session another day.”

“But… but it’s _me_ !” Shurley guy continued, “Dr. Richings _always_ reserves Thursday appointments for me at this time! I mean…” he gestures to the empty row of seats shoved against the wall, “there’s no one else here! No one comes in on Thursdays!”

“Be that as it may, this Thursday is _different_. The doctor is backed up and has been running over with each session as it is. He’s almost done with his one o’clock, and then he’ll see -”

“Me,” Shurley demanded, “Come on, who else could it be?”

Dean cleared his throat, finally making his presence known. Shurley whirls around, eyes wide at the interruption. Cheeks twinged pink from being caught in the act. Adorable if he didn’t see how much of an asshole he was being. As it was, Dean tamped down the urge to gasp at how the blue of his eyes contrasted with his heated, tanned skin. “Actually,” he said, “Dr. Richings is supposed to be with me for the next hour.” Glancing behind the other man, he nodded at Tessa. “Hey.”

“Dean,” she sighed, smiling, “I was wondering where you were?”

“Traffic.”

Tessa nodded, shuffling papers around on her desk. “Like I was saying, Richings should be finishing up any moment. You can sit anywhere to wait…”

He winked, “Thanks.” Dean smirked, making sure to connect with Shurley’s gaze before striding towards the chairs. Collapsing at the one closest to the magazine pile on a nearby end table, he picked a random gossip rag and began reading.

A shadow fell overhead, blocking the pictures of Michael Jackson’s doctor as he was hounded by paparazzi. “Dude,” he scoffed, squirming under Shurley’s intense stare, “ever heard of personal space.” Their knees knocked together, denim brushing against paper-thin slacks.

“Give me your appointment.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll pay you,” Castiel said, grabbing his wallet, “A hundred dollars. Two hundred. _Please_.”

“Look,” he said, slapping the magazine closed onto his lap. “I get you’ve got your problems, you’re in therapy. But so am I. Understand that I need this just as much as you, maybe more so?”

Owlishly, Shurly blinked at him. “Three hundred?”

“Jesus!” Dean barked, “No amount of money is going to get me to move.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“...What’s that supposed to mean?”

“From my experience, people will always compromise given the right amount.”

Dean bristled, feathers finally ruffled. He stood chest-to-chest with the other man. More aware of how different their outfits were. His streaked with faded oil stains and grease marks, having come from work. If Shurley were worried about dirt getting on his clean white shirt or blue silk tie, he didn’t show it. “In _my_ experience, smart mouths lead to _fat lips_.”

“Was that,” he spluttered, “what that a threat?”

“Yeah it was. Problem?”

Shurley glared, leaning closer. An impossible feat given how thin the space between them was. Electricity crackled underneath, Dean’s ears roaring from an elevated heartbeat. “It may shock you,” Shurley growled, stoking flames in his belly from the low timbre, “but I am no stranger to violence.”

A line pulled from the movies that, in any other context, would have Dean creaming his shorts. Instead, tethered to the aggravating man, the pleasure felt bittersweet. “Actually, I’m not,” Dean told him, “everyone you ever met has probably wanted to knock you upside the head.”

Silence washed over them, then. Tension leaking into every empty crevice until they were wound up tighter than toys. Quickly, in the blink of an eye, it all faded. Sucked away by the sound of a door opening.

“...you did really good today, Ms. Rosen. Next week I wouldn’t mind reading some of these stories you’ve written. Maybe… try your hand at writing something pulled from life instead of TV?”

“But a good story isn’t going to come out of nowhere…” her eyes dipped towards them, a nervous smile twitching to life. “Actually… scratch that. Inspiration has been struck.”

Dr. Richings looked at them, too, cursing under breath. “Why don’t you schedule your next appointment with Tessa, I have to deal with this.”

“Ugh, fine…”

He stalked over, lightning creasing his brows. Imposing in his stoicism. Dean tried to keep his cool, but broke immediately when Richings crushed his wrist in a strong vice. His almost-opponent flinched as well. “No fighting,” he said, “ _ever_.” Assured they were thoroughly chastised, he let go. Dean rubbed his wrist, wincing. The doctor ignored him in favor of Shurley. “What are you doing here Castiel?”

Shurley tried answering, except- “Castiel?”

Castiel glared at him, “It’s a family name.”

“I bet,” Dean huffed, “people are only named like that out of obligation.”

“Why you -”

“Dean,” Richings hushed him, “quiet. Castiel… your appointment Is not until tomorrow.”

Finally, Castiel seemed uncomfortable. He fidgeted, fingers playing with the ties of his coat. “I know,” he said, “I know we agreed to try stepping… _outside my comfort zone_. But a whole day? It’s… couldn’t we have done baby steps?”

“Baby steps,” Richings frowned, “you mean like having you order a different coffee from your usual cafe?”

“Well -”

“Or having you pair your suit with a different color tie.”

“Blue with white stripes felt weird -”

“Castiel,” Richings sighed, “we’ve been doing a ton of baby steps. A _Friday_ appointment _is still_ a baby step. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He reached over and laid a hand of Castiel’s shoulder, “That’s what brought you here, right? Fear?”

Nodding, Castiel said, “Yes, I -”

“No,” Richings cut him off, “hold onto that fear. Write it down. Bring it to me tomorrow and we can sort it then. This is Dean’s time.”

Castiel, affronted, glanced between the good doctor and Dean. Dean smiled, a friendly gesture of de-escalation. “An invitation to punch you in the face,” Castiel called it whenever they told the story to friends.

When he left the building, Dean immediately turned to Dr. Richings. “Wow,” he muttered, “what a piece of work…”

“Don’t do that.”

“Huh?”

“Castiel’s a very good man,” Richings told him, “albeit somewhat… _peculiar_. But aren’t we all?” He scratched at his chin, staring at the door. “He’s been a patient of mine for some time now, and what you saw today was a vast improvement. I’m asking a lot of him, and he’s trusting me. Don’t judge him on an almost bad day.” Brow raised, he trailed his gaze across Dean’s body. “Actually… you two would get along really well, given the right circumstances.”

Dean blushed, “What? Him? No way doc…” Clearing his throat, he pushed past him and towards his room. “C’mon, we’re here to analyze my sucky brain not my sucky love life.”

“I didn’t say anything about _love_ , Dean…”

“Shut up.”

Castiel chuckles, rubbing his thumb across his threadbare jeans. “You were an awful assbutt -”

“Can’t believe you still use that word…”

The woman across from them, perched on her chair, hums through plum lips. “An eventful first meeting,” she says, “Real hell. And that was when cupid struck?”

“No, not really,” Castiel says, “a few weeks later, I brought my car into the shop where Dean works. He fixed my car up while I waited, and we didn’t know who the other was until it came time to assess for payment.”

“Figured the guy who owned the truck was a messy dork,” Dean chuckles, “at least three different books in the passenger seat footwell… empty containers of tea with the bags inside them… and tons of loose pages with so much highlighting -”

“All my students’ tests and papers flew everywhere after the crash,” he says, Dean not needing to look to know his nose scrunched high on his face. Lines criss-crossing over themselves adorably. “Forgive me if I was more concerned with my car.”

“Super concerned,” Dean smiles, “Bothering Bobby every half-hour, asking about your car -”

“Bobby? Oh… your boss, Mr. Singer?”

“Correct Dr. MacLeod -”

“Rowena, dearie,” she coos, “call me Rowena.”

Castiel flushes, squirming. “Right, sorry… Rowena. Bobby was Dean’s boss. And I wasn’t _bothering_ him, I was concerned. I’d had my truck since my dad bought it for me in high school and I… I was a touch _too_ sentimental in the past. I didn’t want to have to get a new car… so Bobby placated me, telling me how his best mechanic was making it better than new.”

“Ol’ bastard did love to exaggerate…”

Rowena smiles, checking through her notes. “Now Castiel, this isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned your… _sentimentality_. From your files it looked like you were going to Dr. Richings for a number of years about this. Why did you stop going?”

“I started getting better,” he says, “doing what the doctor suggested and… and meeting Dean helped me overcome many of the obstacles I normally struggled with. I’m sure you can see in my files the day I came to Richings without wearing my usual trench coat.”

“Probably next to ‘thank God for Dean’s clumsy fingers and open cans of motor oil’.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel hushes, the name ripped from his lips. A rush of quiet follows, and the warmth normally following his name hurts. Sobers any levity. “Anyway, weekly appointments became bi-weekly… which became monthly and bi-montly until, well… until he passed away.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Rowena says, squeezing the arms of her chair in lieu of their knees. Dean accepts the sentiment, meaning well-sourced in her thick accent. “And thank you both for telling me all this… I must admit when you two first started coming to me, I was wondering why. Mainly because of the lengthy history you two had with another doctor. Wasn’t sure if there was a falling out or anything…”

“No,” Dean tells her, “nothing like that. Me, I stopped going when I needed to. Went back whenever I got a bit overwhelmed with life and… _spiralled_.”

“Do you think that’s what happened then, Dean?” Rowena asks, “Did you spiral too much without Richings’ help until you crashed?”

A storm cloud rolled overhead, thundering. Shadows flashed over Dean’s eyes, vision blackening briefly and exploding with the colors of the room. He mulls Rowena’s words in his head. Uncaring to how they sound when it’s Richings saying them. Or Sam.

“I’m not going to let you give up like this,” Sam said, standing over the guest bed. Blanket held high over Dean so he couldn’t hide under it. Pillow long kicked to the floor. “We’re all worried about you. Bobby keeps asking me when you’re going back to work.”

Dean gurgled, rolling away so he wouldn’t face his brother. Squishing the empty bags of chips, turning crumbs into dust.

“She’s highly recommended,” Sam continued, “I met her through a client. Prosecution wanted us to give a detailed history of her mental health, and MacLeod was her therapist. She helped me with my case and even took the stand when the time came to strengthen our defense.”

“So?” Dean asked, “Good for you. Don’t see how that affects me.”

“Because she’s smart, kind, and won’t take any of your shit,” he tells him, “and you need that right now.”

“I don’t know Sam. That sounds like you, yet I’m still here…”

“Because you don’t want to listen to me. You don’t want to listen to _anyone_ . There are only two other people who might help but you’re not speaking to one and the other is _dead_ .” Sam sat on the bed, mattress dipping. “Dean… Richings can’t help you anymore. You _need_ to see someone… talk about what happened -”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“So much Dean!” Sam yelled, “I might not know all the pain you’re going through but I understand a lot of it. I know what it’s like to feel _loss_ . And now… she was my mom, too, Dean. Jack was _my_ nephew. We’ve already lost enough people… stop giving them away.”

Anger flared inside Dean, and he clawed through Sam’s bedspread. “You think I’m giving him away? No, Sam. Cas can make his own choices. He don’t seem too keen on stopping by anytime soon for a chat.”

“He’s willing to go.”

Faster than the spark breathed to life it was snuffed. “What…?”

“Cas?” Sam said, “I already tossed the idea his way. If you agreed to go… he would too. He still believes you two can fix this.”

Dean let Sam leave without another word. Wouldn’t speak to his brother the following morning, not even attempting to sign his disparate malice to his sister-in-law. Kept to his vow until Sam dropped him off for the first session at the high rise. Made it all the way to the fifteenth floor, stewing in his aggravation. Until the elevator doors opened and he caught sight of a familiar trench coat.

“Cas.”

Barely a whisper, his name echoed in the empty waiting room. His husband looked up from his lap, dropping the strips of his ratty security blanket. Hurt welled in his too-blue eyes until he shut it down. Caged by purplish bags and new wrinkles. He retreated to his trench coat, pulling it over his t-shirt.

Like it didn’t make him any less ridiculous.

Dean signed in with the receptionist, finding the furthest chair away from Castiel and setting up camp until their names were called.

Neither were too keen to do anything in those first sessions.

Four months in, there’s been progress. But no light at the end of the tunnel.

“Tell me Dean,” Rowena carries on, “do you think Dr. Richings could have helped you process the recent tragedies that blew up your life?”

Dean scoffs, “I wouldn’t say blew up -”

“You lost your son to a horrible illness days and your mother to a careless drunk driver,” she speaks over him, tone smooth and sharp like a thumbtack piercing a corkboard. “Burying both within a matter of days of each other. You’ve lost your job. You’re no longer living in your house. And you’re here, in my office, because you’re inches away from your separation turning into a _divorce_ . Tell me again how your life _isn’t_ in complete shambles?”

He glared at her, arms crossed. “When you put it like that…”

She sighed, pinching her brow. “I didn’t mean to get cross with you, dearie, I just…” Rowena sets her notes aside and stands. “We’ve been at this awhile. You’re both good people who’ve been dealt unlucky cards. I wish neither of you had to go through what you did.”

“But we had to,” Dean growls, “I’ve always had to. Mom, Jack… I don’t know why I thought it would be different…”

Mary Winchester nearly died once. The Winchester brothers thought she did, perishing in a fire that consumed their childhood home. John spirited them away before they saw it fully collapse. Too early. For if they stayed a bit longer, they would have seen a fireman carry a somewhat charred, unresponsive woman to a nearby ambulance.

Maybe their family would have been whole. Maybe Dean could have grown up at a normal pace. Maybe their home wouldn’t have been a sleek, black muscle car from the past.

Maybe John Winchester wouldn’t have lost his battle with the demons goading him to drink every night until he couldn’t take it anymore and blew his brains out. Not telling either of his children until they received a call from a motel owner south of nowhere telling them how they found his body.

At least in John’s death, they found a new beginning.

Mary attended like a vision, almost too good for reality. They were right, when Dean approached her and a heavy fog clouded her vision. “Dean?” she said, “It… sounds familiar.”

After the fire, Mary woke with no memory past one of meeting a man with his foot glued to the accelerator and a taste for classic rock. Her parents filled her in on nothing. Keeping her in the dark about her sons, the ones named after them.

It took years for her memories of them to return, to create new ones. And they were for nothing.

Almost as pointless as taking in the child of a dear, late friend.

“He is technically my nephew,” Castiel said, watching Jack play with other kids his age. Arm wrapped over Dean’s shoulder. “And we both know Nick won’t have anything to do with the boy. Kelly wouldn’t want him shuttled off to some foster system, to be forgotten.”

Jack tripped over the basketball, landing on his knee. Dean jumped. An urge to run over and check on the boy awoke in that moment, seemingly from nowhere. He ignored it, instead watching what happened next.

Rolling over, Jack pulled his knee close and checked it. From how exposed the skin was to wear and tear by wearing shorts, Dean guessed he must have scraped it. Except there were no tears.

Jack stared at his knee for a long time, enough that the kids around him picked the ball up and continued playing without him. Then, after a minute that felt like hours, he turned to where Dean and Cas were standing. Looked at them, silently asking ‘Can you believe this?’

Dean chuckled, leaning into Cas’s embrace. “Yeah… yeah, okay. Let’s do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure sure,” Dean said, “We’ll be good for him… and him, us.”

They were wrong then, too. Jack’s father struck with a vengeance, taking them to court for custody over their boy. With Sam’s help Dean and Castiel barely managed to keep guardianship of him.

It wasn’t a long duty. Almost as soon as their legal troubles were over the medical crisis began. Cancer too far along, Jack’s candle flickered dangerously in the wind.

“Dean,” Castiel says, closer than he was before, “Dean it’s not like we could have known any of this was going to happen.”

“But we should have!” he yells, “My life’s been nothing but some big cosmic joke. Some-some show that a cruddy audience jerks it to whenever I’m in pain.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is Cas,” Dean says, blinking through tears, “Why can’t you see I’m just a lousy screw-up, huh? Your dad was right about me…”

“Hold on a minute,” Rowena stops him, hovering nearby, “what did you say?”

Dean rolls his eyes, wiping at the stray watermarks. “That I’m a screw-up -”

“No,” she waves him off, “about Castiel’s father?”

He scowls. “Yeah. What about it? He’s not the first person to call me a screw-up…”

“But you mentioned _him_ , specifically,” she continues, walking back to her seat. Notes in hand, Rowena asks, “Has your father been a sore spot for a long time, Castiel?”

Castiel startles, glancing away from Dean. “What? I… uh, yes. I guess? Ever since Dean and I started dating he hasn’t been the-ah… the most _supportive_.”

Something bitter roils in Dean’s chest when he laughs. “It took your brother _and_ sister locking him in a bathroom to keep him from interrupting our wedding.”

“He has this… idea of what me and my siblings should be doing with our lives,” Castiel explains, “Some of us followed in his footsteps and joined the family company. While others… _rebelled_. My brother Nick went into politics. Gabriel is a producer in Hollywood and Hannah… they teach sculpture at a community college in Maine.”  
“So your profession as a professor -”

“Was not well received,” Castiel sighs, “Every decision I made that he didn’t agree with, he saw it as me not _achieving_ all I could do. That I was _limiting_ myself. He pushes people very hard. As you can see me attest to in my files many of my neuroses were not aided by his parenting.”

Rowena scribbles on her notepad, tone lilting when she connects a few dots Dean cannot see. Too busy trying to figure out what she’s doing, he doesn’t see her turn to him. “Dean, my boy,” she starts, “why did you bring up Chuck just then?”

“What?”

“When you were talking to Castiel, you mentioned Chuck. Why was he on your mind?”

Dean shrugs, slumping in his seat until his knees hit the coffee table. “I don’t know. Sometimes when I’m in a funk my brain plays a mixtape of all the people who’ve said bad things about me and the dashboard buttons stick, so there’s no stopping it. Like I said, he wasn’t the first to call me a screw-up, definitely not the last.”

Rowena nods, mirroring his too-wide smile. “Of course,” she says, “you’re not telling me the whole truth, are you?”

He pinches his thigh. “I’ve told you enough.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Dean?”

“I know that if I’m not ready to talk about things, I don’t have to.”

“This isn’t about being ready, Dean. This is about not wanting to face whatever happened -”

“Who said anything happened!” he yells, leaning forward, “I didn’t say that! It’s not like there was anything _to_ happen. Nothing happened! I made sure of it when Chuck -” Dean bites his lip, cheeks heating under the victorious leer Rowena shoots his way. He avoids meeting Castiel’s curious stare when he returns to his earlier position. “You’re awful.”

“Awfully amazing,” she says, “Now… you and Chuck. Was it a recent altercation?”

Dean checks the clock, aware of how little time is left of their appointment. Waiting her out is preferable to dredging up that memory.

But then, “Dean…”

Looking at Castiel was a mistake. At his soft eyes, his parted lips, his overgrown stubble. Make him hoist the white flag and resign to mortifying ideals.

“It was a day or two after Jack’s funeral,” Dean begins, talking to his hands, “Cas… you’d gone with Gabriel to pay for the service. I was putting casserole after casserole away…”

“Coming!” Dean yelled, dropping Donna’s plastic Tupperware onto the counter in his haste to answer the door. He hurried when the incessant knocking grew louder. “I said I was coming,” he grumbled, “what’s so important that you’re… _oh_.”

Chuck stood on the other side, an air of casualness wafting from him. Dressed casually in a fitted Henley, dark-wash jeans, leather boots and a jacket. A total sum of more than what Dean made in a month. “What?” he asked, “Not gonna invite me in?”

“Finally admitting you’re a bloodsucker then?”

He pursed his lips. “Cute.” Chuck strode past him, “Where’s my son?”

“Cas isn’t here,” Dean told him, door still open, “If that’s all?”

Chuck glanced back, smirking. “Not that easy. I didn’t come here for him.”

Dean frowned, slamming the door shut. “What Chuck? What do you want?”

“I came here to talk to you.”

“Sure,” he huffed, “because you couldn’t have done that when you were at the funeral.” They barely shared a glance, Dean only knowing Chuck came by a whispered warning from Hannah and a peek at the back row when going up for Jack’s eulogy. “If you’ve come by to say you’re ‘sorry for our loss’ or some other bullshit… I don’t need to hear it.”

“Well… now that hurts Dean,” Chuck said, “Jack was as much my grandson as he was your son… actually, he was _more_. Biological factors considered -”

“ _God_ !” Dean groaned, pinching his nose, “Haven’t I already suffered _enough_?” Sagging against a nearby wall, he waves at his father-in-law. “Come on. Out with it so we can get this over with.”

Contempt flashed to life on Chuck’s face, quickly smothered by a self-satisfied smirk. “All right. _Fine_. I’ll skip the appetizers and present the main course.” The metaphor knocks his eyes so far back in his head they roll forward again without help. “I’m here to offer my help.”

“Help? What kind of help do you think we need?”

“The kind of help I can provide,” he explained, “ _Money_.”

Dean tensed, gaze flicking to the other man. “Money?” Five letters that made every nerve left in his body join their brothers, when one by one they turn to ash. Stoked to burn by memories, time after time of Chuck’s snide comments about their lifestyle. Being forced to listen, to bury his anger, with each insinuation he made from ‘concern’.

“Money,” Chuck said, fiddling with the jacket zipper, “You know… you could make a higher salary if you applied yourself more.”

He scoffed. “If I applied myself any more I’d be pushing Bobby’s wheelchair down a staircase.”

“Then maybe it’s time to consider a change?”

A chill rushed down Dean’s spine. Before he could comment, Chuck rushed into his spiel. About how Michael decided to leave the company after falling for some vagabond during a corporate retreat. “Adam’s a nice boy,” Castiel tells Rowena, “and very charming. I mean, he got my brother to pick up _yoga_.”

“Anyway,” Dean says, a fierce itch tingling behind his eyes, “instead of promoting from within, he got the idea to rely on old-fashioned nepotism.”

“From how you describe your father-in-law,” Rowena says, “It doesn’t seem like he’d be pretty keen on doing such a thing. What drove him to make such an ask?”

Dean sneaks a peek at Castiel, frowning.

“I know neither of you two are in a good place right now,” Chuck said, “financially, I mean.”

“How would you know that?”

Chuck switched to an even more irritating expression. Lips stretching in plastic sympathy. “Because of something I overheard after the service.”

“Castiel and Gabriel were talking,” Dean says, “About how, with both Jack’s and my mom’s… a huge chunk of our savings was gone. Not taking into account the money we funnelled towards medical bills until we found a St. Jude’s we’re _still_ paying off. We were scraping by each month as it was… after all that…”

“It is to be expected,” Rowena says, “after such traumatic events for money to be a sore subject.”

“But,” Dean sighs, wiping at his nose, “I had to… I had to hear it from _hum_ .” He shifts, turning to face his husband, “Cas, I had to hear it from Chuck and not _you_.”

He heard a lot from Chuck. When Dean rejected the offer, repeated with shaky confidence how they were doing fine with where they were, his father-in-law went livid. “You really are a fool,” he spat, barreling past him towards the door, “every day my son spends married to a buffoon like you is another he subjects himself to torture. Because you, Dean Winchester, are _poison_ . You take so much from Castiel and push all your problems onto him and give him _nothing_ . It’s no surprise all of this happened, because you wreck _everything_ you touch. I hope you enjoy the gutters when the bank evicts you from your home in a month. Not like they’d be able to turn a profit on this shitty thing…”

“And then he left,” Dean shrugs, numb to the gentle caress of Castiel’s hand on his back.

“After all that?” Rowena asked, “He shouted at you and you did… what?”

“I did nothing,” he said, “I couldn’t do anything when he was right.”

“Dean -”

“He _was,_ Cas,” Dean cries, “I mean, look at us! We’re in freaking _therapy_ because I couldn’t lose just my mom, or my son… I had to lose you, too and I couldn’t handle it.”

Castiel readies another dismissal, but keeps his finger on the trigger. Tongue pressed against teeth, only part of him moving his brows furrowing above. He loads another, more deadly bullet into the barrel and fires at his heart. “Is this why, Dean? Why you pushed me away? Why you… you became so _cold_ ? Why you said all those _hurtful_ things at me?”

Dean wrings his hands, copper all he can taste. “I blew up,” he admits, “You were just… there. Being so kind… so caring, and I - I was so mad that I couldn’t be the same. Too full of my own bullshit that I couldn’t stick to my vows and _be there_ for you.” Choking back a sob, he rocks into Castiel. “I never meant what I said… I… everything I said, were things I thought about myself.”

Rowena hums, scribbling in her notepad. “Dean, is this something you’ve done before?”

He nods. “I… yeah. I’ve had a history of being unable to process my anger in a healthy way. Or… at least that was how Dr. Richings described it.” Dean attempts a smile, lips twisting into a grimace. “After he helped me through that… dark period, I’d still go back to him from time to time-”

“When life started spiralling?”

“Yeah…” Sighing, he pulls from Castiel’s embrace, unable to rely on his husband as a shield. “I’ve… it’s always been a problem, since I was young. This anger. I don’t know why it’s there but it’s like it… it never goes away. And when everything becomes too much, and the voices in my head get too loud I… I…”

“You blow up?” Rowena finishes, glancing at Castiel, “Hurting those caught in the crossfire?” She adjusts in her seat, crossing her legs. “Has he ever blown up at you like this?”

“A few times,” Castiel admits, “But usually, with some time and space, we come back together. Normally only a few days, but…”

“But this was going on for much longer.” Rowena taps her pen, staring at Dean. “Why didn’t you seek to resolve this? If the pattern is blow up, space, reunion… why break the cycle?” He won’t answer her. Chews on his tongue so he can’t answer. It doesn’t matter. “Did you think you were doing Castiel a _service_ by staying out of his life?”

“Shit,” he breathes. A nail pierces his heart, hammered in expertly by Rowena. “How are you this good?”

“Because I am dearie… so if you will?”

His mouth flaps for a beat, only no sound accompanies it. Throat stopped up by fear, thick and watery and not enough to truly choke on. Dean looks at Castiel, studies the infinite sadness rippling across his eyes. The only part of him that dare show how he’s feeling. “Because of this,” he growls, “because you’re holding back from me.”

“What -”

“Here I am having a breakdown and you look like it’s another fucking Saturday!” Dean yells, “Like you… you checked out, and were just waiting for an excuse to leave. At least… at least that’s what I believe, after talking with Chuck.” He gasps, tugging at his hair. “Christ, Cas, if you were worried about money why didn’t you bring it up with me? Why don’t you tell me how _you’re_ feeling? I want to help but it’s like… it’s like you won’t _let me_.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I… I don’t know what to - to… I’m not waiting for an excuse to leave you -”

“Well how was the poor boy supposed to know that, Castiel?”

Castiel whips around towards Rowena. “Excuse me?”

She sighs, flipping through her notes. “In every session, you’ve been a willing participant. Moresoe than your husband. However… everything you ever said was about him or in relation to him… we never hear any ‘I’ statements from you.”

“I highly doubt that,” he says, lips twitching into a nervous smile, “I just said ‘I’... and I did it again!”

Rowena arches a brow. “In fact,” she continues, “didn’t you mention how, the day after Dean left you, you were ‘chugging coffee to stay awake in class’.”

“It was a very important week for me, most of my students’ grades were calculated from these presentations -”

“An average person in this kind of situation would not be too keen to go back to class,” she says, “in fact, you didn’t miss a single class since. Did Dean’s absence really affect you?”

“...Of course it did!” Castiel snarls, cool facade entirely shattered under the implication, “My love for Dean is as infinite as the stars in the sky or-or… or the amount of fucking _purple_ you have in your office. But I know when to put my own troubles aside for others -”

“That you do, Castiel,” Rowena agrees, “In fact… it said in your file you have a tendency to absorb others’ burdens at the expense of dealing with your own?”

Dean watches Castiel barely contain his ire. Fingers twitching against his knee, scraping the denim. Eyes almost shut from how tightly they squint across the table, like he could smite her with a thought.

“You spend all your energy trying to fix things,” she says, “that there’s no time to hone in on what _you’re_ feeling -”

“Because I know what I’m feeling!”  
“Good! What is it, then?”

“I… It’s... “ Castiel sighs, sagging into the couch now, “I’m tired, I’m… I’m _empty_. Like there’s been this darkness inside of me, chipping away until I’m nothing but a husk. And I figured maybe… maybe if I didn’t give it any attention, it would go away.”

“That’s no way to beat a beast like that, Castiel,” Rowena tells him, “You should know. Your history with depression -”

“Was a fucking nightmare,” he cuts her off, “some days I couldn’t get up from my bed I didn’t think it was worth it. Once… once, it was so bad, I nearly lost my job because I kept missing classes. All because I _allowed_ myself to stare into the abyss and was foolish enough to blink.”

Rowena won’t quit. “You’re scared.”

“Damn right I’m scared.”

“And because of this fear,” she says, “you shut yourself off. Kept things bottled up.”

“Not… not entirely,” Castiel says, looking to Dean. “I… all your life, you’ve had other people’s shit dumped on you. Your dad’s… your mom’s… grandparents, co-workers, former partners… I didn’t want to be that. Didn’t want to put you through anymore of it. You had your own problems, and I wanted to be there for _you_.”

“Cas,” Dean sighs, reaching across to curl his arm around his husband’s shoulders, “When we stood across from each other all those years ago… I wasn’t accepting just the good parts. It was all of you.”

“But -”

“Everyone else dumped on me without my consent,” he says, “You… I _want_ to be there for you. To help. Be equal… not treated with fucking kid’s gloves.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel says, a tear traversing the planes of his cheeks, “I’m sorry.”

“We lost so much already,” Dean sniffs, “and we almost lost this… I’m sorry, too.”

They hold each other. Reacquaint themselves with parts they kept themselves from sharing because of their own stubborn beliefs. Dean breaths in the scent of laundry detergent around Castiel’s neck, heart aching because he missed it. Because Sam makes his own instead of buying Tide like a normal person.

“Now this is really lovely, boys,” Rowena says, clapping. Drawing them from the embrace, “Truly. But… we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “too easy, right?”

“You’ve made a lot of progress already,” she winks, “so I doubt the rest will be hard. That being said… our time is officially over.”

“It is?” Castiel asks, “That was all an hour?”

“An hour and five minutes but… who am I to rush healing,” she shrugs, “Besides, my next patient is a total narcissist and making him wait will be good for him.” Rowena stands, beckoning them to do the same so she can shake their hands. “I think you two are finally ready for some homework.”

“Homework?” Dean winces, “C’mon, Rowena…”

“Nothing too serious,” she laughs, walking them towards the door, “The two of you have taken so many hits, that it’s definitely bruised your relationship. So I want you two to take it back to where it all began.”

“Meaning?”

“Recreate your first date,” she tells them, “Reflect on what drew you two to each other and remind yourself of all the happiness that existed because of your union. And write it all down, because come our next meeting I want to hear all about it!"

“We will, Rowena,” Dean says, smile more genuine than ever, “Thank you.”

“All in a day’s work, dearie…”

They leave her office, walking side by side to the elevator banks. When it opens up, someone rushes out and between Dean, uncoupling their joined hands. Dean only notices they were glued together when forced apart, and quickly fixes that mistake.

“I’ve missed being able to hold your hand,” he says.

“I missed having your hand hold mine.”

Dean looks at his husband, calm with very obvious tear-stains on his face. “Do you think we’ll ever get back to where we were?” he asks under the delightful mediocrity of elevator music.

Castiel meets his gaze. “I’m not sure,” he says, “I don’t believe we can ever be the same as we were yesterday but… I hope we can be better.”

“So do I…” A breath. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Dean.”

* * *

Rowena walks to her car, fixing her hair into a ponytail. “Fucking naturalists,” she huffs, “Not everything can be cured with fucking crystals… if you’re gonna get into witchcraft at least make it _interesting_.”

At her car, she moves to enter. Only her phone chirps with a new message, drawing her focus. “Please don’t let it be a patient,” she says, checking.

She reads the texts, and smiles.

It was a patient. Rather, patients. Dean and Castiel sent her a photo - a selfie. From years ago, by the looks of it. Followed by another picture. A recreation of the first, with the same table, same candle, and same bottle of wine. Same all-consuming love for each other.

 _Thanks, doc_.

“These are the moments that make it worth it Rowena,” she says, “make it _all_ worth it…”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Wowee wow wow.  
> What did you think? Let me know by dropping a kudos/comment below!


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